Entrapment
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Annie enlists Jeff's help, but as usual, it backfires.


**Title:** Entrapment  
**Summary:** _Annie enlists Jeff's help, but as usual, it backfires._  
**Fandom:** Community  
**Characters/Pairing:** Ensemble, Jeff/Annie  
**Word Count:** 6,800

In a perfect world, nursing a few different glasses of scotch would only have positive side effects.

But since Jeff has yet to find that world, what he does get is a hang-over that'd keel over a lesser man. Head pounding, last night's dinner lodged in his throat and threatening for the janitorial use of wood chips, voices-loud-cause-pain, the whole nine yards.

And yet he's at school. For an exam. Which might as well mean, _Jeff has no identity as a human being left._

It's as he's wallowing in this thought that Annie appears, bursting out of the crowd like something out of a nightmare.

"Jeff, hello! Just the person I was looking for. I was hoping we could talk, you know, _hombre-e-niña_. That sounded catchier in my head."

"It must be that 'do not disturb' aura I've perfected that invites conversation. Gee, nice to see it's holding up."

"Aw, I think you give off sweet vibes! Like a stockbroker, or a handsomely dressed dentist."

"And you just described Satan in his various human forms. Really, thank you."

"So," she says, trailing at his side with an eagerness that _actually_ negates his use of Advil, "I was thinking, because Pierce broke his arm--" (at the cause, FYI, of purposely tripping down a flight of stairs, which means that, according to logic and the facts of life, Jeff is cleared of his conscious for thinking what a _MORONIC_ move that was) "--we should help him out."

"Hey, you know what's a better idea? The exact opposite of whatever you're thinking. 'Cause I can do that. Phase one: adopt indifference." Jeff pulls a face, a man dedicated to his art. "Phase complete. Transitioning to phase two: make new friends who _don't_ think it's hilarious to stage-dive a stairwell."

Annie's nod is wise and sage and therefore incredibly ironic. "He makes the weirdest life choices."

"Preach it, sister."

"But," she blusters on, enthusiasm cranked up another notch, "wouldn't it be nice to _do_ something for him? Think about it, it's like a paradox of typical human nature. Most people would turn away, _no_ concern to help out a fellow man, but not us. We can assist!"

"Your use of a singular pronoun is sounding disturbingly plural."

It's only then, as she is aiming her usual disappointed scowl his way, that she notices that he is wearing sunglasses, inside. Coupled with his attitude and current sparkly-vampire complexion, she jumps to a fair conclusion, one that's half right anyway.

"You're _drunk_," she says, all quiet and crazy and scandalized and _ridiculous_.

Jeff huffs, "Am not. I was drunk three hours ago."

It might be because he's still got a buzz going, but he swears he almost sees something like curiosity pass behind her eyes. That's instead of the expected intolerance and speeches and _your liver is soaking in alcohol Hell, Jeff, how about that_?

"Back to what I was saying," she backtracks, and ignores his raised eyebrows. If Annie's skipping a lecture, and let's face it, the girl loves to get her sermon on, he must be well and truly beyond guidance. Neat. "We can help fix his meals, or shepherd him to class like a wayward animal! What do you think? Or type out his reports, because--and I don't want to go into specifics!--but trust me, one-handed typing can be tricky."

Bypassing the obvious joke, Jeff drives home the snark. "Careful, Lassie. You start that up and Timmy'll keep falling down the well."

"He has _a broken arm_!" she gasps, like he is denying this fact. Which, for the record, he's not. It's just hard to stir up the urge to care, is all.

Annie says, "If you had a broken arm, buddy, you'd be _begging_ for help."

"Wrong. Because I don't beg. What I _would_ do is bend your mortal weaknesses to my advantage using a tactic and ploy more agreeably defined as 'diabolical'. Begging is just _trite_."

She jumps in front of him, halting them. His headache protests the sudden movement with an oceanic-sized wave sloshing around in his head, but Annie blathers on to remind his pain that there are worse methods of provocation. "If you broke your arm, we _all_ would help out."

"Yeah," he scoffs, nonplussed. This is her argument? "I'm the popular one. Duh."

Her face goes pale, and he thinks if he pretends hard enough he might catch sight of steam shooting out of her ears. Instead she stifles this terrible, beastly inhuman cry, some noise born forth from both animal and supernatural parts, and shoves in his face a thick bundle of stapled paper.

"Read it," she demands, "eat it, sleep it, _breathe_ it, because you are _in_, Winger."

And then she whirls around and is carried off by a winged clan of minions, Jeff's weak reply of "In _what_?" lost in her wake.

But she's gone, already stomping far enough down the hall that... well, Jeff's voice would carry just fine, but he's not in the mood to be that 'shouting like an idiot after the girl who's pissed off' guy.

It's an itinerary. To help Pierce out.

He scans over it just enough to see things like _Restroom break. A male should assist so that Pierce doesn't lose his strong sense of pride_ and _Volunteer to listen to 'The Old Days'_ to know that _this will never fucking happen._

Jeff tosses Annie's stack of crap into the nearest garbage can.

* * *

Normally Jeff spends his Spanish study group time invaluably. For instance, outside of the court room, it's the best opportunity for him to perfect a state of irony. Take a tall, once well-off, always well-dressed man and stick him in the middle of a brothel full of crazies over-identifying as a community college and... you see how easy it is for 'irony' to happen.

But today Annie's been sending him bitter glares of hatred since they'd assembled, like he's supposed to, what? Ask politely for context? He doesn't, of course, because he can't quite work up the feeling to care, which means it's only inevitable before she takes a more drastic measure.

She clears her throat in a way that is subtle to exactly zero degrees, and when that doesn't work, her eyes widen really creepily.

Troy notices first.

"Annie, what is _up_ with your eyeballs?" he says, like they've done something amazing, like grown wings.

Because they've started to react as one, which is depressing, Annie stops when she realizes that the entire group is pinning her with their _This Is How We Judge People_ stare. And damn straight Jeff's wearing that same face, only, beneath the harshness of his judgment there is a small, impossible to catch with the human eye look of _Oh, Yeah, Bow Down To My Awesome_. He's gloating, basically, but in a way that is multi-facing with accusation.

Stammering, Annie manages a brilliant defense: "What! Me? Nothing! What? Not a... he-e-eey! _Jeff_ showed up _drunk_ today!"

A chorus of surprised gasps rings out, heads whipping in his direction.

"Low ball," Jeff accuses of Annie, who shrugs and smirks and looks way too smug for someone with a cashmere sweater tied primly around their shoulders.

Pierce lets out a low whistle. "I remember those days."

"I'm sure you actually don't," Jeff insists, fast, because having Pierce on his side is _the worst possible thing_.

"I remember them like they were yesterday."

Annie leans across Shirley and says, with a slowness used to keep the old from taking the wrong mental exit, "Pierce. Would you like to _talk_ about those days?"

Jeff is pretty sure he would rather be bludgeoned to death by Bill O'Reilly's tangible lack of logic than sit here and listen to Pierce wax on about the glory days when civilization first became a concept.

Luckily, Britta is not one to let Jeff so easily off the hook.

"You came to class drunk?" she marvels. "You know, one of these days I'll stop being so surprised. Or I could use a different tone? Sort of, noncommittally shocked. Impassive, even."

"One," Jeff defends, "I wasn't drunk."

"Yes," Pierce sagely agrees, "we silver foxes prefer the term _on the sauce_. See, it implies that one is not an addict. No, no, one is merely a fan of liquor, one who, on rather--_frequenting_--occasions, finds themselves waking up from a raging black-out, disoriented and pantsless--"

Various groans and acts of full-body cringing stop Pierce.

Then Abed shrugs. "It makes sense, from a character stand point, that you would show up drunk."

"I wasn't drunk! And I have _decades_ before these tresses go gray, trust me."

"Jeff," Shirley says, all sweet-voiced and concerned because, after all, his soul _is_ careening towards doom, hasn't there been an intervention staged by now? "You know you don't need to drink your problems away just 'cause opening up is hard to do. We're here for you."

A chorus of agreement rings out, varying in degrees of commitment.

"She's right," nods Abed. "You started out disillusioned, but because of our strong group appeal, you've begun to care. Besides, you're not scheduled for a depressing but eventually uplifting decline for at least another four episodes. You should hang back."

Troy announces, "I got an Uncle who's a beeraholic."

Britta goes the condescending route. "Yeah, Jeff, we're all here for you. _Buddy_. See how I said that? Consider it the word equivalent of a really emasculating pat on the back. But it brings itself back around to concerned, in a neat and tidy loop."

"But now," Troy remembers, "that Uncle's my Aunt. It could be related to the beer."

"Does anyone else smell pretzels?" Pierce wonders.

Once it's been settled that they've still got time to save Jeff (seriously?), conversation inevitably turns back to Pierce, who rambles on about the details of how he lost his pants (amazingly, not how you'd think), when Annie slides another thick stack of papers in front of him.

Her demands are clear: _Be one with the itinerary, or I will ruin you._

Jeff maintains eye contact with her, smiling big, but there isn't mirth there, people, that's just a taste of what his victory will look like, because it is so freaking _on_.

He accepts the papers, but gives back a facial dose of: _Prepare to meet thy doom._

* * *

Of course, twenty minutes later study group ends, and it's Annie that hurries out after him.

Straight to the point and lacking her earlier tactics of girl-dispensed evil, she says, "Just so you know, I arranged the itinerary so that it runs in shifts, but! There's been an unforeseen hurdle. I have goals, and obligations, and you have... what do you do all day again, besides slack?" He shoots her the obligatory side-glare, but, no. Slacking sounds about right. "Anyway, it seems, _as a cause of clinical error_, I would just like the record to state... that you'll be called to duty more often."

Error my ass. And whatever. It doesn't matter anyway.

"You do realize I'm not doing anything a 20-page itinerary tells me to do, right?"

Determination grips her. "You'll do it--because this is my confident voice, and these are my demanding eyes, and because it's impossible to say 'no' to either!"

He lets his scoff do his talking for him.

"Besides, Pierce is your friend."

"That's like saying, 'besides, that disease that's eating away at your flesh is your friend.'"

"And do you know what victims of flesh-eating viruses do? They read up on their illness so they know what they're dealing with, and they learn where all available handicap ramps are in case of an emergency, they plan itineraries! And they selflessly agree to help their crippled friend in his time of need."

"How depressing _was_ your childhood?"

Sounding confident, she says, "I think you'll do it."

"You and I have a very different belief system. Mine's based in the land of reality."

"Know why? Because despite what you like to strut, and despite your Lone Ranger complex, not even _you_ are that selfish."

Zing. Right to the kisser, that one connects.

* * *

Throughout the rest of the day, Jeff catches witness to Annie's civic duty put to action.

In the cafeteria, she carries Pierce's tray for him. It's loaded with the works; pizza, cans of soda, piles of cookies. Pierce just _smiles_, a man clueless to her intentions. Well, unless her intentions have suddenly shifted to 'Annie wants to bang Pierce', that is, because Pierce responds with innuendo transparent to everyone but her.

There's a countdown in Jeff's head until (_five, four, three, two--_)

Pierce swings a careless arm around and knocks the tray out of Annie's hands (and, oh, he so called it), food flying everywhere, shock running amok. Annie gets the obligatory _Ha ha, you screwed up and that's funny_ laughter-turned-applause, which she valiantly acknowledges with a half-bow, which seems ridiculous in theory, but except for the pinch of embarrassment in the brow area, she pulls off spectacularly.

*

Before Spanish, Annie rushes past Jeff, pulling open the classroom door, breathless.

He crooks his head, smiles, abnormally pleased. "Why, Annie. Such chivalry--"

"Move it or lose it, Winger!"

Gripped by confusion, he turns around, only to see Pierce ambling up the hallway, high-fiving a bunch of random people along the way. Once he spots Jeff, he gives him the ol' head nod of mutually approved brolationship, which is slightly uncomfortable.

Pierce makes a bunch of old man noises, lots of irrelevant _Oh!_'s and _Hmm_'s and _Ah, yes_'s while sliding past Jeff and Annie with a gracious grin.

It's Jeff that gets the smack on the arm, though, and a friendly, "All the gentlemen of the world are door-holders!"

Annie's jaw drops, eyes getting huge.

"A rare hit out the ballpark," Jeff notes, angling an arm out to gesture her through. "After you. _Milady_."

Yeah, he just went there.

It's the perfect storm of boasting and patronization that makes her glower and say, "Mi_screwyou_!", hair angrily whooshing after her.

*

In class, as Pierce is overtly having issues jotting down key parts in Senor Chang's lecture, Annie keeps turning around, all helpful and thoughtful and _Would you like me to make copies of my notes for you?_ with those big, manipulative Bambie eyes. Once or twice she flicks a look Jeff's way, like she's upping the game.

Dream on.

"Pssst," Jeff says, quiet, because he's not stupid enough to actually set Senor Chang off. Ever since he made his pecs available for a one-sided, man-to-man sob-fest, he's become a target. Maybe it's because he blatantly ignored the out-of-class-so-theoretically-meaningles

s punishment of penning an essay titled "Taking Advantage of the Emotionally Vulnerable", or maybe there was some post-hangout bro-code he broke. But he's actually become that guy who gets called out for, like, accidental shoe squeaking and allergenic sneezing.

Britta eyeballs him, hisses, "Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'I've decided to stop hitting on you because after the hundredth rejection, I realize it makes me look like a sleazeball', I don't want to hear it!"

"Quiet, squirrel. For once, it's not about you."

She jerks back, internally checking her database to see if she should be offended or happy. Since 'offended' is the easier emotion to deal with, it's what she lands on, which means (because it's Britta) that not only does he get a heap of I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that-to-me eyes, he gets the follow-up of I'm-going-to-rip-your-throat-out-so-watch-your-back.

He'll smooth that out later.

Jeff whisper-shouts, "Pierce!"

Pierce turns first to his right, where he gets a blank stare from the person beside him who doesn't understand why the old dude in class is suddenly staring pretty creepily at them, before he realizes where the call is coming from.

Jeff leans as far as it's humanly possible for an impressively tall man to lean across a desk without it being obvious that half of his body is hanging in the next aisle over. Voice all low and throaty, he asks, "Want my notes?"

Spoiler alert: there are no actual notes.

But Pierce's eyebrows leap high, delighted at Jeff's character growth at the hands of selflessness, and it almost makes Jeff feel guilty. Were he capable of that particular emotion, but he's not, so let's hold back on cueing the 'Jeff has an epiphany' collage.

A thumbs-up seals Jeff's good deed _and_ pretty solidly guarantees that he will never get laid again, because who would screw a dude that does that, ladies? Thank you. No one.

Beyond the cotton-colored fuzz of Pierce's old man hair, Jeff gets a clear view of the sad-eyes Annie's dishing out, the toughest weapon in her arsenal not directly involving the use of tears.

Jeff ignores them.

They do not break down his defenses.

He is a strong, brute of a man.

For god's sake, he's a _lawyer_.

Boo-yah.

* * *

Jeff drops himself into a seat close to Pierce, who is squinting at the screen on his telephone.

After class, apparently Pierce always heads back to their designated study room. Maybe it's instinctive, like a rat in one of those experiments with a shock collar and a block of cheese, or maybe he just has nowhere else to go. Either way, talk about depressing.

"Did you know," Pierce says, deep in thought, "that you could watch video on your phone?" Then he catches himself, and his exposed age. "Of course you did! You knew that, I knew that. Everyone knows that! When will technology _advance_ already, yeesh. I'm not getting any younger! Or am I? Either way it really makes you appreciate the little time we do have. So, Jeff, what can I do you for?"

Jeff has processed Pierce's words in his usual manner of brow-wrinkling bewilderment, so it takes him a moment to realize he's coming across here as someone in need of advice. No, pull back. As someone in need of advice from _Pierce_.

That's just... wrong. And not right. And _wrong._

He shakes away the horror with a smile that might actually make him look deranged.

"For once, I'm good."

"Oh! You're good. Okay. That's slang."

"Uh, no, that's an informal expression of words."

"Right! Of course, of course. So you're okay?"

"I'm sensing a repetition."

"And you're good?"

"Weird, isn't it?"

"Okay." Pierce lets this sit between them. And then, "Just so we're square... 'good' isn't a code word for anything, is it?"

"Not today. Sorry. I left my decoder ring at home."

Pierce finds this easy to accept. When he goes back to his phone, wide-eyed over the ever progressive media, Jeff wonders if he's done enough to bail, weighing a mental scale. On one hand, two minutes spent with Pierce offering no actual help or services rendered is probably not what Annie had in mind. While it could be brought up in a raised voice that Annie has no actual authority, it's like this: saying no to Annie, he finds, is like looking a fetus in the eye and telling it, _sorry, kiddo, Mommy's pro-choice and you? You weren't quite the post-date experience she was looking for._

Yeah, a very strong no thanks.

And on the other hand, eh. This is where Jeff starts to forget why he's even electing to be of service in the first place. He can't be that easily goaded, can he? No. Of course not.

With his good arm in a cast-and-sling contraption, Pierce has trouble dialing whoever it is he ends up trying to dial after his video well runs dry. There's a lot of finger stabbing (Pierce shoots a _what, me? crazy? no!_ smile Jeff's way during this) that leads to phone banging (Jeff dons an appropriate stare, one that is both amused and worried that Pierce's addled mind has finally breached insanity) before Pierce utters, wholly defeated: "I have become my _Mother_."

It's really not a surprise that it activates Voice Command, dialing Pierce's mom. When Pierce realizes what's happening, he fumbles the phone (_slick_) and makes a noise heard as _oh, applesauce!_, but after two and a half rings and long before Pierce is in any shape to disconnect, someone on the other line picks up.

"Pierce, dear? Is that you?" says a high, clearly maternal voice.

Pierce's face is pained. "Yes! Mother. How nice to hear your voice from somewhere not beyond the grave."

"How are you getting along with your friends? You're not being a grouch, are you, because you know you tire easily, and no one likes a sourpuss--"

"Fine, Mother!" Pierce checks to see if Jeff is listening in. He is, obviously. "And how's dad?"

"How do you think!" Jeff thinks he can hear the sound of angry shooing, and then a meowing cat. "Patches, Mommy's not feeding you right now! Mommy's busy. Go on!" Back to Pierce: "What do you suppose it means that your father's ghost only shows up when I make toast? And always so _angry_. Is it because I use that wheat bread he never liked very much?"

Jeff's eyebrows leap high, which means he's in I-have-a-plan mode.

"Can I?" he gestures to the phone.

Pierce hands it over, no hesitation involved, except for the clumsy awkwardness that comes with Pierce's natural lack of hand/eye coordination.

"Hello, Mrs. Hawthorne. Jeff Winger, here."

"Have you been sass-talking my sweet Pierce again?"

"What? _No._"

"Because he's a very sensitive young man."

"Agreed, which is why I'm on the phone with you. Yeah, it's crazy, he just stepped out to go save a..." Pierce, having caught on, is doing a lot of one-armed imitations, which Jeff observes as, "...hang-glider?"

Pierce lets out a deep, disappointed sigh. So, not hang-glider.

On the other line, concern trickles through. "He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"Oh, he's _fine_," Jeff blusters.

Pierce cups his hand around his mouth and normal-voice yells, "_Don't move, you'll rattle the wings! Try and deploy your parachute_!" At Jeff's super judgmental staring, Pierce gives him a thumbs-up and a toothy grin.

"Oh my!" Pierce's mom says, then shrieks, "Pierce, honey! Be careful! Make sure you don't strain yourself too hard, you know you'll make your ulcer flare!"

And on that note, Jeff says, "He'll get back to you," and clips the phone shut. Then, "Hang-glider? Really?"

Pierce redoes his imitations. "Flamenco dancer!" he clues in, outraged that this isn't being gotten.

"Because that makes much more sense."

Remembering his duties, Jeff flips open the phone again. He ignores the 'Mr. Hawthorne if you're nasty' text greeting. "You were calling?"

"What? Hm? Oh! No. No, no, I wasn't calling, I was texting sexually suggestive things. To _Mrs. Chang_."

Is that--? That might be an actual feeling of awe that makes Jeff's general cynicism momentarily abide.

"The Chang's missus," Jeff compliments. "Ballsy."

Pierce lifts a shoulder, pleased and 'aww-shucks, it's nothing' at the same time.

"Yeah," Jeff repeats his same impressed sentiment. "And what you're doing, besides being immoral, is called sexting."

Pierce tries out this new word. "_Sexting_. Dig it!"

"So," Jeff says, pulling up Pierce's text history and, _yeah_, okay. That is sexting. Holy crap. "Do you mind?"

He'd probably resort to childhood methods of holding the phone high above his head, anyway, but sometimes it makes Jeff feel less like a bitter, dead-hearted ice machine to fake politeness.

But Pierce waves Jeff off, all, "Not at all, of course not! My secrets are yours."

Green-light, baby.

Reading through a couple of the most recent texts, which brings a whole new definition to the word 'disturbing' (they range from generic: _what r u wearing_? to questionable: _i'd like to do it with my teeth_, whatever THAT even means. Besides _gross_), Jeff pulls on his big boy gloves.

He types with all the fluidity of a 14-year old girl, sending: _Do you find it attractive when a man cries his way through sex?_ and waits for the fun to begin.

* * *

Annie finds them a wild, delirious forty minutes later, huddled over the phone, laughing.

Because it's a scene that warms even the most wary, beaten of hearts, she reacts with a smile. Jeff is too busy reading Mrs. Senor Chang's--amazing--response (_i will show u the mexican halloween, and then we will trick-or-treat til morning!_ HOW IS THIS REALITY?) to get a proper gauge on Annie's level of joy, but he suspects there are clasped hands, heart-shaped eyes, woodland animals pouring out of some rip in the space/time continuum, and Annie mentally snapping a photo of this moment for her Greendale BFF Mental Scrapbook.

"Would you look at you two," she coos, fluttering over. "Getting _along_, not _arguing_, sharing phone--_WHAT THE! Holy stars_!"

Annie spins like a spaz, covers her eyes, actually starts to flail as she rounds back to the safe side of the table, all the while making these choking, scandalized sounds of horror.

Jeff grins.

"_Hey_, it's _Annie_," he says, all stretched out and condescending and _oh, is that you, young one? Sorry, I guess while us two adults were busy with grown-up time, we didn't see you slink down the staircase for that warm glass of milk, skipper._

One hand shielding her from the debauchery, the other pointed about twenty minute hands too far to the left of them, she yells, "_What_ are you doing! Besides the doing that you're obviously already doing, which is... _wrong_ doing! Horribly wrong!"

Play time over, Jeff hands the phone back to Pierce, who shoves it into his shirt pocket and rushes to stand.

"A lady in a fuss. Guess that's my cue to skedaddle."

Not yet peeking from her protective cover, she demands, "Hold it! Sit back down."

Pierce drops like a sack of potatoes into the chair beside Jeff again. "Can do."

Jeff shakes his head, a pang in his chest. "Your dignity, man."

Pierce acknowledges this wordlessly, pathetically, wildly tossing his hands up in the air: what was he supposed to do, you see her! The girl is balls out nuts right now!

Jeff gives back his own silent stare: did you just gesture the words 'balls out'?

When he realizes Annie still has a hand suctioning the life out of her face to keep the impurities at bay, he drawls, "You can drop the skirt, darling, the mouse is gone."

She looks like she might cry (whatever, he's injected himself with an anecdote by now), or scream, or rip him a new one, but instead she drifts back over to the table, where her back pack had been abandoned when times were still innocent and cheerful.

"Right." With some effort (badly cushioned wooden chairs do not equal comfortability), Jeff stands, shakes out forty five minutes worth of aches and pain and memories that soon needed to be repressed. "I should go."

Pierce takes this as his move to exit as well. Safety in numbers. "As should I," he says, and copies Jeff's movements, but adds a super exaggerated stretch _plus_ loud yawn. "Would you look at the time! Is it five o'clock already? I've got an early bird special and a sweet senorita both waiting with my name on it, so if you'll just excuse me--"

He glances at Jeff, all _suck it, kid, learn from those wiser than you_, practically skipping out of there.

Annie goes, "Wait! But, don't you! You need help! Your arm!"

Pierce waves her off with his non-stupidly broken hand, taps at his shirt pocket again where there's a small, almost inaudible rattling. "Doc prescribed me the good stuff," he explains, already half way out the door. "In all actuality, I could be hallucinating this right now!" As if this is hilarious to him, he laughs, high and free. "Bye, Annie! Bye, Jeff! Bye, hologram from the future!"

Jeff quirks his head to the side, eyes squinted. Right. _That's_ what made their encounter so... minus a racist comment. Pills were involved. Happy, magical pills.

As Jeff gets his usual swagger on, headed for the outside world where he never has to see these people, there's this pathetic-looking _thing_ messing up his peripheral that, upon an actual glance, he realizes is Annie. She's sitting at the table, slumped over, shoulders drawn in like someone kicked her puppy. It would be sad, if it wasn't so victorious.

Then something terrible happens, something terrible that's been happening at a rate disturbing enough that he almost brought it up with his therapist: Jeff's soul comes out of hiding. Ugh, gross, god, why. But it's useless to try to fight it, because it's like an alien rising from underground, clawing through soil and mantles and cores and everything else for that taste of freedom.

He sits down beside her, hating himself, hating himself, yeah, he's hating the crap out of himself. Fine. He can offer a silent camaraderie. A little _I got your back, you got my back by never speaking about this out loud to anyone we may or may not mutually know_.

Jeff hasn't peeked inside the Friendship Manuel since he was _never_, because he's not a _girl_, but he figures this is what people do for other people they share conversations and quirks and once a debate-winning kiss with. They do this.

Until 'this' become unbearable, holy crap, the eeriness of just _sitting_.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and thank god he's able to maintain that inflection that makes him sound like a thoughtless, careless, going-through-the-motions-of-human-emotions-just-to-remind-myself-I'm-capable bastard.

"I'm not going to ask how you did it," she answers, mood escalating into crazy territory and _quick_, "because I know how you did it! You... diabolical worm! With cheap methods of catering to Pierce's lowest base urges, _congratulations_."

"For the record, that qualifies everything from washing machines to _Deal or No Deal_."

She doesn't stomp her foot, but it's there in her voice. "You coddled him with _illicit text messages_!"

Jeff smiles at the memory. It'll be a shame when it's later purged from his system.

"You know," she says, sounding disappointed but dreamy, "I had this whole evening mapped out. I'd ask him about Florida, and his grandkids, and he'd tell me about fighting a war. I'd laugh, he'd feel good about himself. We'd make macaroni art."

"Yeeeaaah. You're describing some other ancient Greendale alumni. Pierce has or has done none of those things."

She scrounges together scraps of bravado. "You just _have_ to have everything! Don't you? Looks, popularity, the kind of tousled hair I'd want if I were a boy. And you had to take this, too. You're no different than everyone else!"

"I'm going to pretend you said that with a trace of barely detectable sarcasm."

Her responding silence rattles him from 'coolly detached' to 'my brain protests your implications', which makes the next part happen.

"Wait a minute, you're giving me an icy silence? How is that--? You're the one who forced this on me!" he reminds her. "With your formidable eyes and your _'I grew a backbone'_ speech, and now it's _my_ fault that I spent my time with Pierce _awesomely_, thank you _so much_ for asking, by the way, we had a _great_ time. Maybe if you weren't so preoccupied with the idea of being someone who _wasn't_ the lowest social rung nine months ago, you'd know that. And not everything in life has to be a competition! Sometimes it's just boring filler between commercials, but, really, what life really is, Annie, is the next person waiting in line to screw you over. One after the other, they all line up, just waiting to knock you down a peg."

By the time he's done projecting a little life knowledge on her, he's up and standing, hands wiped clean of all of this. This is why he rarely extends beyond his casted role of impartial smart ass, because inevitably he opens his mouth and starts to say things that make other people react in a way that makes him feel something other than bored/fantastic/superior. Proving his point, Annie's giving him one of those stares that makes him feel like punching in his own face.

"You're right," she says, like she's coming to terms with something huge here. She gathers up her back pack, stands without another word. Walks away, minus the lingering stare and guilt-trip and parting shot that kicks his conscious into gear.

And yet, somewhere in the back of his head there's this Britta-sounding voice that's going: _And in the least surprising news ever, Jeff Winger proves he is incapable of compassion. Seems like SOMEBODY could use a crash course in empathy! Tune in for the six o'clock update when we reveal Jeff's high incompatibility with other actual human beings._

* * *

Jeff catches up to Annie outside of the building.

"Wait," he says, then unveils his best closing statement right off the bat: "I'm sorry."

She responds with a chilly silence, stalking off with her head held high, which means that he follows.

"Fine, I get it, I have to grovel. Just let me disconnect that part of my brain first that feels things."

"Keep it connected," she says, stubborn but sarcastic. "Without it, your head might fall off."

Hey, a joke! Jokes are good. Jokes are Jeff's signal that there's something salvageable still left.

"I shouldn't have detonated on you like that. I blew it up, and it sucked, and I'm sorry. But you were wrong, too."

Annie stops them, angles a soul-kicked look his way. "I _was_ wrong," she says. "All I wanted to do was help Pierce out, and afterwards revel in the group's praise, but. You were better at it."

Before Jeff can explain that, yeah, the whole _point_ was that he was better at it, keep up, Abed and Troy come up from behind them.

"Ah," remarks Abed, "a lover's quarrel. After exposed subconscious longings were revealed, Annie and Jeff don't know how to slide back into the friendship role. The question is, do they want to?"

"Every time you do that," Jeff dryly notes, "you risk over-exposure."

"Besides," Annie huffs, "you're wrong! Jeff, tell him."

"You're wrong?"

She adds a full two inches to her height, standing tall, and says, "You couldn't be any _more_ wrong unless you _majored_ in it, and your parents took away your driving privileges because they think you should be doing something more with your life than going to a community college to get the world's first degree in _wrong_. So there!"

She stomps away, all purpose-driven with a point to be made.

Hive-minded, Jeff, Abed, and Troy share a look, a well-synchronized shrug, and then, as one, they hopelessly trail after her.

Abed says, "I'm okay with being wrong. But in this scenario, and the scene you laid out, I'm not. Sorry," he adds, in what might be the most unapologetic tone Jeff has heard not flying directly out of his own mouth.

With a look at the back of Annie's head, Jeff assures, "Trust us. You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Do you need a dictionary?"

Troy sides with Team Abed. "Abed's cool. He _knows_ things. Freaky things."

"Thanks," says Abed, head tilted.

From in front of them, Annie yells, "Well, he doesn't know THIS!"

While Jeff appreciates that the weight of her emotions have shifted away from _Jeff never says or does anything right which makes him a terrible human being_, the fact that it's transferred horribly to _Jeff is a loser and no way would I date him_ is not as welcoming as you'd think.

(Please, with a face like his, he's _plenty_ dateable.)

Abed counters Annie's strong denial with a pretty widely broadcasted, "Because you think actions speak louder than words, you created a plan of entrapment. Knowing that Jeff easily succumbs to basic methods of instigation--"

"What? No, I don't."

Abed employs an example: "Your hair is dumb."

Jeff retorts, "Your _face_ is dumb."

Point made, Abed continues, "You set him up so he'd accept helping you out. I assume Pierce is involved, since it's a convenient plot device that he has his hand in a cast. Except you two were just yelling, which means that it backfired. And that's where we came in."

By now Annie has wheeled around, red-faced. Part embarrassment, but mostly she just looks _mad_. Abed has clearly yet to learn enough about women to know that never, ever do you make them look like that.

Troy nods, big. This is a smart man. "Abed, we should go."

With a shrug, Abed accepts their dismissal. "Okay." Then he decides something. "You two will make it."

Troy and Abed head off to the basketball courts/staging ground for local protests, back-and-forth with things like: "Sometimes you get weird." / "I hadn't noticed." / "_That's what makes you so weird_, Abed!" / "I guess." / "Know what else is weird?" / "A cheaply wrapped up plot that doesn't really make sense within the context of the story?" / "Chicken butt." / "You're right, that is weird." / "I know! _Chicken butt_."

Annie's the first to break a lingering, insanely awkward silence. "Just so you know, I didn't try to _entrap_ you."

Jeff scoffs, "Of course not."

The idea had never even crossed his mind. Until now. Where it's alarmingly crossing and recrossing, and, hey, is that Britta?

Just kidding.

"My intentions were strictly honorable!" Annie declares with a believability that is gripping. "I was trying to help Pierce out. And if I thought I might feel good about myself in the process, well, whoop-dee-do! Who doesn't use moments of selflessness for the occasional selfish reason?"

"You know, I've legally defended that very argument."

"We're friends, aren't we? Socially... connected... friends. Who go to school together but are often thought of outside these potent four walls?"

Up until and possibly including now, he's never bothered to wonder what he is to any of these people, besides Britta, which makes him wrack his brain for the right answer to give.

They _have_ kissed, and since he technically still talks to her, she hasn't been put on the same black list 99% of the woman he's swapped spit with have been put on. That must mean something.

"Sure," he says, deciding it sounds right. "And, hey! Look at that. I said it without violently cringing! This must be what self-improvement feels like."

Annie gives him one of those huge, dignity-stealing, macho-wilting smiles, and maybe it's because, crap, he kind of likes being on the receiving end of it, or maybe it's because his brain just replayed their debate antics all over again, the reaction his body chooses to have is not "congratulations, Jeff, you really can talk your way out of anything!" but "hey, Jeff, remember when you kissed Annie and it was hot and should've lasted way longer than six measly seconds?"

He must start resembling a cartoon character with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, because she goes from happy and naive to slack-faced and surprised. And what the hell, that makes him want to kiss her, too!

"I'm about to do something _incredibly_ stupid," he warns, "in, oh, I'd say three seconds. I would go if I were you."

"Oh, but--?" Her face twists up into confusion, brows pushed together. She just _stands_ there, looking unhelpfully hot. "What?"

When Jeff leans down, intent ridiculously and pathetically clear, she widens her eyes just so, mouth dropping open for a silent 'oh!'. But nothing comes out, and she doesn't run in the opposite direction, virtue fluttering at her heels, so he takes it that one more needed inch, and then he's kissing her.

In his head he hears a shouted "day seized, Mr. Winger!", which is annoying and it better not become what his psyche responds with every time.

More than six seconds later, she smiles against his mouth, and he thinks _Ha! No intent to entrap, my ass!_, but then she's sliding her palms across his Senor Chang-approved pecs, behind his neck, _way_ too hands-on for someone always giving off the 'My other car is a purity ring' vibe, and his mind draws blank, except for this:

_Enjoy the moment, because Chris Hansen's going to be popping out of the bushes... any... second... now..._

Busy with the public make-out, neither Jeff nor Annie see Abed and Troy walk by.

Catching sight of the intense P.D.A., Troy seems scandalized, openly gaping.

Abed merely lifts a hand.

"Called it."

****

THE END!


End file.
